


Life before your eyes

by Ghosts_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark Past, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, dark thought, dying character, fluff ending, imaginary, smut at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghosts_Writer/pseuds/Ghosts_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Listen, Johnny, this is important. When you die, you get to see your life again. Anything you'd want to see again, you'll see. Either because it was good or because you regret it. Make sure you don't regret too much."</p><p>After an explosion John Watson is lead through the self-picked highlights of his life by his dead grandmother. The bad, the worse and the worst. How many of his memories will actually be good? And what does he regret?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. unsaid good bye

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so with my other WIP terribly stuck, I tried to write something fluffy and cute but it turned out quite angsty. As I try to bring back the fluff, I actually stumbled upon my head canon of John's dark past that made him into the man he is today. So this is a character study of John Hamish Watson. 
> 
> I don't know yet where exactly the story will take me all together, so I'm not sure which relationships or characters will actually occur so the list might be edited. 
> 
> If you have any head canon dark past scenarios that you'd like to see written, feel free to leave a comment. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are like food, water, air and sex all at the same time!
> 
> I do plan to have a happy ending, never mind the warning, I'm a sucker for and they lived happily ever after...
> 
> Not betaed or brit-picked and I suck at trying to make John's dad sound hillbilly.
> 
>  
> 
> I had to edit the tags for this one as it kind of ran away with me. While I always planned a happy ending, I never planned this. This story is like a free-writing exercise. I don't know where it will take me, so changes in tone are included.

John opened his eyes to find himself staring at a grey ceiling. There was a crack, running from one corner to the other where from a big wet patch water was slowly dropping. His brows furrowed, he knew that crack. He had seen it so many times that its specific path had practically burned itself into his retinas. 

“There you are, Johnny.” 

The female voice was familiar, but it's been years – no, decades since he'd heard it.

“Grandma?” John asked, his voice rough, as he turned his head to find her sitting on the old, creaking chair at his desk. No, it wasn't his desk anymore. He rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out how he ended up in his childhood room with his grandmother – who happened to be dead for 25 years. 

“I told you this would come, Johnny.” she smiled sweetly at him, the same way she always did when she was still alive.

“What would come?” John asked, although by now he was sure he was dreaming he thought he might as well figure out what his subconscious was up to. 

“I told you, Johnny, when you die you get to see your life again. I do hope you followed my advise and made sure there wasn't much you'd regret.” she stood from the chair, extending her hand to her now sitting grandson.

“Hold up...when I die...I'm dead?” he asked, his face distorted in a frown.

“Do keep up, Johnny,” she smirked affectionately, “You're not dead yet, but you are dying.”

He closed his eyes, trying hard to remember what happened. He remembered Sherlock running into a house ahead of him, a gun shot, pressing his hands down onto Sherlock's bleeding thigh. The detective tried to send him off, yelling at him to get lost. And then it hit him -

“There was an explosion...Sherlock...”, he looked up at his grandmother for an answer to the question he couldn't possibly ask.

“I'm not here for the present, Johnny. I'm here to take you through your past.” she softly stroke over his cheek, brushing away a tear he hadn't noticed before. “C'mon, Johnny, we don't have eternity, yet.”

Reluctantly he let himself be pulled to his feet and found the angle he looked down at the elderly woman strange and unfamiliar. _Obviously it's because you were 12 when she died and you're 37 now_ a voice in his head said, that sounded suspiciously like a certain detective. 

His grandmother opened the door and immediately he could hear yelling. He couldn't help the wince the memory brought out as they descended the stairs of John's childhood home. And there in the sitting room was his father, shit-faced as usual, engaged in a shouting match with both his wife and fifteen year old daughter. 

John swallowed hard as he looked right at the moment it all went to hell – if it hadn't years ago already. It had been the last time he had seen his father, a perfect last image of a narcissistic and depressed man.

“Ya're nothing! No Watson's ever gotten out of this shit. Going to a fancy school, my arse! Ya'll stay here and work, that's what ya'll do!”, the man John wished he didn't look like yelled at the teenage girl, sitting defiantly calm in an old chair. “That's that Clara girl, I'm tellin' ya!” John Watson sr. spat towards his wife now. “Told ya that girl's trouble. Next thing ya'll know she'll turn our girl into a lesbian!”

“At least she loves me!” Harry cried out, jumped out of the chair and rushed to the door.

“Harry...” John's mother, a small, thin woman with pale skin merely whispered.

“Harriet Watson, get back 'ere!” his father bellowed but the door slammed shut.

John felt his hands tighten into fists but felt his grandmother's hands sooth them out. “Where were you?” she asked softly.

“Wait for it.” John replied, turning towards the kitchen, where his father was heading. A moment later a young boy of eleven was pulled out into the living room by the right ear, usually hidden under sandy blond hair. John instinctively touched his ear, rubbing behind it at the faded scar.

“Where'd she go? Huh? You always stick together! Where does Clara live?” his father yelled, releasing the hold on his son so suddenly that the boy fell to the floor.

“Don't know, Dad, she never showed me...” the young John muttered.

“Don't lie to me, boy!” the threat was immediately followed by a harsh slap across the face. 

“Really, Dad,” the boy sobbed, “I don't know. She hasn't talked to me a lot recently.” 

“John, Jay doesn't know!” his mother shrieked and she received the next slap – obviously not the first that day, but John knew it would thankfully be the last his father ever gave.

John sr. snorted and rushed out of the door, a moment later the sound of his car roaring through the thin walls.

John heard a sigh and looked at his grandmother. “If I had known...”

“I know, grandma. Mum couldn't tell you...” John replied. It had taken him long to understand and he still didn't really. Knowing that most abused women never utter a word is not the same as understanding it. 

“Why did you want to see this again, though? Did you want to stop your father from driving drunk?” she asked softly while they watched the young John comforting his mother.

“No, he deserved what he got and he didn't hurt anyone else for once in his life.” John replied as a small smile appeared. “This, though, this was a new beginning. We moved out of this godforsaken rundown place into your house, and from then on, everything was better...for a while.”

He smiled at his grandmother, and followed her willingly as she lead the way out of the house.


	2. A secret kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows his grandmother something he never told anyone before. Does he regret the secret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are rather short. Don't know if the later chapters will get longer, but it makes most sense to set cuts where John and his grandmother enter new scenes.
> 
> Also, I decided to call John's younger self Johnny until he leaves the army. It's easier that way.

Right behind the front door, John found himself inside a pub instead of the street they used to live in. It took him a moment to realize at which point in his life they had landed but when he saw the 17 year old Clara stumble past him with a paper crown on her head he remembered. 

“Nice party.” His grandmother grinned up at him. “Did you meet a nice girl here?” 

“No, not so much. Most of those girl wouldn't be interested in me anyway.” He replied, pointing at several couples all over the pub, all of them girls and trying to perform tonsillectomy with their tongues. “It's Clara's 17th birthday. She and Harry had gotten fake IDs so they'd get alcohol.”

“Oh, not good?” his grandmother asked with a slight wince.

“No, not good...” John replied. He followed the very intoxicated Clara to a booth in the depth of the pub. 

“Babe! C'mon! Let's dance!” Clara said, pulling on Harry's sleeve but the teenager just swatted her girlfriend's hand away. 

“Leave me be, girl!” she slurred, graping her glass awkwardly and downing the last of her pint. “Gawd, I'd die for a fag right now.” 

“You're in the wrong club for that, sweety.” Clara grinned as she slipped into the booth, rubbing up against Harry. “Maybe a lesbo will do?” She ran her tongue over Harry's ear but the girl once more just pushed her away. 

John realized that most of this particular memory was made up with what Clara had told him when their marriage had started to fall apart but only a moment later, the door opened and a thirteen year old boy walked in. He got strange looks from everyone and he wasn't sure to this day whether it's due to his age or gender. 

“Harry...I've been looking all over town for you!” the boy stated when he finally found his older sister. He had overheard a conversation that this was one of the spots she and Clara frequented when they went into the city and he's been searching for the pub for three hours now. “You were supposed to pick me up from the rugby tournament.” 

“Oh, relax Johnny, it's my girl's birthday!” Harry chanted though the happiness sounded more sarcastic than anything.

“Are you drunk?” Johnny asked eyeing both his sister and her girlfriend. 

“Sit back, have a pint.” Harry simply replied with a wave of her hand.

“Harry, Johnny's only thirteen!” Clara interrupted. “He can't be drinking!”

“Neither should you!” Johnny stated the rather obvious. “You took Mum's car.”

“And I'll get you home.” Harry pointed out, but as her already empty glass slipped her clumsy fingers while saying this, Johnny couldn't really believe that statement. He snorted but his sister pushed past her. “Gimme a sec...” she muttered while rushing towards the restrooms.

“Wow...If I've known how she gets,” Clara said, looking after her girlfriend. “I've never seen her drunk before...” it sounded as if she was apologizing to Johnny, but both he and his older self watching the scene simply shook their heads. 

“You've never seen her _this_ drunk, maybe. Honestly, she's barely been sober for months now.” the boy replied sadly. 

Clara's expression was one of shock and maybe even sudden clarity. It didn't take long before both Clara and Johnny retrieved Harry from the restrooms to bring her home.

“What happened after that?” John's grandmother asked him.

“I drove the car back home.” John shrugged. “I might have been thirteen but I was sure I could drive a car saver than those drunk birds. I never told Mum any of this.”

“Do you regret covering for Harry? Considering what she became?” she asked.

John shook his head vehemently. “No. That night Clara realized where Harry was heading. Admittedly, she couldn't really put off the inevitable but it took Harry a lot longer to reach rock bottom. Clara followed a strict no more than two drinks policy and for about ten years that worked out great. Well, as far as Clara knows. Without that night happening the way it did, I'm sure Harry would already be dead.”


	3. A decision made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Johnny makes one of the first decisions in favor of someone else's interests over his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short, but I figured his decision is clear so no need to pull it out.

When they exited the pub, they walked into a cozy living room. John felt his heart warm at the sight of his grandmother's house, although he knew that at this point she was already dead. The warm feeling didn't last long anyway because on the sofa were Harry and his mother, both crying silently while Clara sat quite lost on the chair next to them.

John remembered the scene before the door opened and his 18 year old self came through the door smiling from ear to ear. He immediately recognized the head on the letter Johnny was carrying. 

“What's that letter?” his grandmother asked him.

“It's from Oxford Medical School. I received a full scholarship.” John replied, sounding sad as he turned away from the boy back to the women inside the living room.

“Mum! Guess what was in the mail!” Johnny bounced into the room but stopped dead at the sight before him. “What's wrong?”

“Johnny...” Harry started and even in the single word Johnny could hear the slur that seemed omnipresent these days, almost enough to be imperceptible. “Sit down, Mum's got to tell you something.”

Johnny walked around the sofa to an empty chair, sitting with his back ramrod straight. “What's the matter?”

“Jay,” his mother started. She was even thinner than she used to be, her hair sickly gray, just like her skin. “baby, I've got cancer.” 

Johnny's mouth dropped open as he stared at his mother, his anchor, his center of the world. “What?” his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Small cell lung cancer.” Harry supplied and Johnny paled even more. He'd been fascinated with everything medical for years and cancer in particular, which was why he had applied at Oxford in the first place. The problem was that he knew very well what small cell lung cancer was and just how bad the prognosis were. 

“Mum?” Johnny asked softly, reaching his hand out for his mother.

“I'm sorry, Jay, so sorry.” his mother cried bitterly and Johnny quickly crossed over to her to hug her tightly.

“It's ok, Mum, I'll be here for you.” He softly kissed her on her hair. “I'll get you a glass of water.” 

As John and his grandmother watched Johnny walk to the kitchen the boy took the letter and ripped it in half.

“You never went to Oxford.” his grandmother stated.

“No. Mum needed me to be here. Harry was out of town for university, so I had to stay.” John answered.

“So this is what you regret, right? Giving up on your dream school to stay with your mum who was going to die anyway?” 

John snorted through a bitter laugh. “Nah. I could never regret time spent with her. So, I didn't go to Oxford, I got my MD anyways. Didn't really matter later anyways. And I had to work, I think that was good for my character if nothing else. And thanks to Mum I spent my time studying instead of partying. I doubt that counts as regrettable in the long run.” 

John's grandmother simply shook her head smiling and lead him out of the room full of crying women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small Cell Lung Cancer is the type of cancer that you don't get from smoking. It's extremely fast progressive, quickly spreads and the 5-year survival rate at stage 1 is 10%, meaning if you get diagnosed, even in the earliest stage where the tumor is small and hasn't infiltrated yet, it's very unlikely that you'll survive.


	4. Thank you, but no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Johnny's graduation from Med School and he's made an offer none of his fellow students would refuse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going away tomorrow, so no update tomorrow and possibly saturday.

They moved into a huge hall, with hundreds of people gathering around. Johnny was there, dressed in a suit that didn't look too bad although it was obvious that it was second hand by the way it didn't fit him at all and was too short and too big at the same time. His arm was around the waist of a pretty girl with strawberry red curls, pink lips and too much cleavage. They were talking to a tall, well built and even better dressed man with a tan most unnatural for London and teeth as white as freshly fallen snow on a bright sunny day. 

“Who's that?” John's grandmother asked as they approached the trio, the disdain in her voice barely withheld and John silently wondered whether it was his ex-girlfriend or his ex-professor rubbing his grandmother the wrong way, because it could be both really. John honestly couldn't see her liking either of them.

“It's my ex-girlfriend Erica and one of my professors, Dr. Irking. Though, everybody called him Dr. Beauty-to-go. He had a cosmetic surgery clinic in the city.” John explained. 

“Plastic surgeon.” His grandmother snorted. “What's he teaching real doctors?”

John grinned. “Well, I didn't want to go into oncology anymore, after Mum died, so I went into surgery. He was the one teaching us how to sew one up without a messy scar, as far as possible.” 

She made a sound that didn't sound very pleased and pointed at Erica. “What's the story with the ring?”

“Oh, um...I had asked Erica to marry me just before graduation. I know it's a tiny ring, but it was all I could afford.” John replied as they finally reached hearing distance. 

“Oh, yes, Erica, you certainly got yourself a good one with our dear Johnny.” Dr. Irking said flashing his blinding teeth in a smile. “Potential, so much potential, this one. Never seen a better stitch, and that's from a lefty!”

“Thank you, sir.” Johnny answered, though he didn't appear overly flattered by the professor's compliment.

“Actually, Johnny, now that you've graduated, I have an offer to make. How would you like coming to work for me. It'd be a while till you do your own surgeries but even as an assistant I doubt you will find a better paying job.” Irking didn't look at Johnny, being more focused on Erica's breasts that started heaving at the word _paying_. 

“Thank you for your offer, sir.” Johnny said politely but his back straightened ever so slightly in defiance. “Unfortunately, I have to decline.”

Both Irking and Erica turned to stare at him in surprise. “What? Johnny, didn't you hear what he said...you won't find a better job.” Erica said in a stage whisper.

“Actually, Erica, he said I won't find a better paying job.” Johnny pointed out. “I didn't go to Med School while working three jobs to end up doing nose and boob jobs.” 

Irking looked at him down his nose. “That's a condescending way of seeing my offer, Johnny.”

The new doctor shrugged. “Maybe it is. It's not that I don't value the worth of plastic surgery to the psyche of certain patients, but you're in it for the money and that's not what I want to do with my life. I became a doctor to help people. To safe lives.”

“And I assume you have found yourself a position where you can do that, as green as you are? You will be wiping sweat off seasoned surgeons' foreheads for years to come, Johnny. I just offered to make it worth your time.” Irking voice took on a hint of strong irritation that he failed to suppress.

Johnny snorted. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Army surgery is chronically understaffed, so I'm quite certain I'll get my chance to shine.”

“Army surgery?” Erica blurted. “You want to join the Army?”

“I already have, honey. I received my first orders yesterday. I meant to tell you-” Johnny got interrupted by his furious fiancée.

“Army? No! No. Fucking. Way! Take the job he just offered you!” she cried out.

“What? No, Erica, I already joined up. I can't just back out now...” Johnny tried to explain but only to have a ring thrown at him.

“That's it! You just don't want to have a good life, do you? I have standards, Johnny! I was willing to wait for your graduation, but this is it!” 

Johnny stood dumbstruck as Erica stormed off out of the hall. Irking clapped him on the shoulder with a smirk and left the soon to be soldier alone.

John felt a soft hand on his arm as he watched his younger self stare down at the ring in his hand. 

“So, is this it? You passed on a job all your fellow students would have envied you for and lost your fiancée? Is this what you regret?” his grandmother asked, her voice solemn.

John grinned. “No way. I meant every word I had said back then. Plus, Irking's clinic got shut down three months later when he and his partner were facing charges of mistreatment. Erica was married six months later to some banker from the city. Three years ago Sherlock and I investigated her murder. Turned out her husband had hired a rather inventive contract killer because she's been cheating on him for as long as they were married. Interestingly enough, the killer pretended to be a plastic surgeon. Sherlock called the case boring. I didn't tell him why I deemed it good enough for my blog.” He glanced at his grandmother. “Besides, the best days of my life were still to come and they would have never happened if I hadn't made that decision. Why would I regret it?”

His grandmother snorted good-naturedly. “You have a horribly positive outlook on things.”


	5. Unsaid Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandma starts to rush John through his memories and he comes up with his first regret, but it's not what his grandmother would expect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, we're getting closer. Here's John's regret for SiP.

Once through the door out of the graduation party, John didn't take long to recognize the heat and smell of the afghan desert. His nightmares were still vividly enough to have the memory of this place burned on all his senses. He moved several steps before he noticed, that his grandmother wasn't following him.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“John, dear, is this the memory of how you got injured?” she asked softly.

He looked at the sandy ground, avoiding her eyes. “Yes.” he replied because he couldn't not reply his grandmother.

“You were shot while trying to save a fellow soldier, weren't you?” she continued.

“Yes.” he answered again, more quietly this time.

She sighed. “And I'm sure you don't regret it, either?” He looked up surprised. “John, I told you, we don't have eternity. I do get that this moment was crucial in your life, but is it really something you want to revisit just before your untimely death? C'mon, I know that there are much more important things in your life.”

John smiled slightly and nodded. Going through the solitary door they had entered the desert through, they found themselves in a park, and not far from them John and a thick man sat on a bench.

“Ok, c'mon, give me the short version.” she said.

“It's my meeting with Mike Stamford after I got back for Afghanistan. He then went on to introduce me to Sherlock.” John said, a bit surprised.

“What's so important about this? And don't give me the whole _I'd never met Sherlock_. I get that. But why visit this and not your first meeting with the actual man?” 

John took a deep breath. “I guess, I never actually thanked Mike. Most people I knew would have just left me alone at the time but Mike saw that I needed something. I don't think he strikes most people as particularly observant, but I think he saw that Sherlock would be just right for me. He knew Sherlock and still he introduced us so that leaves only the option that he figured Sherlock was what I needed, or he secretly hates me and wanted me to suffer an insufferable flat-mate. Either way, I should have taken him out for a pint and thank him.”

His grandmother stared at him for a long moment. “Let me get this straight, sweetheart. You didn't regret letting your father drive drunk, which killed him. You didn't regret covering for your drinking sister, even though you now know she turned into an alcoholic. You didn't regret passing on Oxford and a high paying job and your fiancée. Basically, for all you know, Harry could be clean and with Clara right now, you could swim in money and be married. And you regret not thanking a man for introducing you to your flat-mate?”

“Well, if you put it like that it sounds weird.” John pointed out. “You can't know Harry would have ended up sober with Clara. For all we know, Mum would have yelled at them, Harry would have run off and drunk. Clara would have broken up with her because of her excessive drinking and because she becomes a bitch after drink three. I might have gone to Oxford, but I wouldn't have spent time with my Mum, who died only 13 months after the diagnosis, after months of chemotherapy. And if I had taken the job, I might have gone down with the clinic in the law suit. For Erica? You really think she wouldn't have ended up cheating on me as much as on that banker? Maybe I would have been the one hiring her killer then. But thanking Mike? Well, I know that I am thankful that he introduced me to Sherlock because if he hadn't...” John fell silent.

“If he hadn't what?” his grandmother pushed.

John took a shaky breath. “If he hadn't, I wouldn't have lived this long. I was broken after I returned to London. I didn't have a job, I didn't have friends, I didn't see a point in going on. But that day I met a bloke, and he showed me that I could serve a purpose here in London. I met someone who was completely insane and yet utterly brilliant. Someone who only glanced at me and knew my life's story. Someone I trusted blindly without ever having a reason to. I had my gun, grandma. If I hadn't met Sherlock that day, if I hadn't looked at that truly beautiful flat in central London the next day, if I hadn't run after a cab and forgot my cane that night...I would have ended it. If I had to go back to that beige bedsit one more time, I would have decorated the walls with my brain.”

Grandma nodded slowly. “Ok, John, I get it. This is one of the most important moments in your life.”

“Thank you.” John whispered as they left even before the conversation on the bench ended.


	6. Missed Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sums up all the opportunities he had and never did anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short one. Working up to the happy end, I promise.

For a while John and his grandmother wandered through strange streets that resembled a cut together version of London. There was Angelo's with Sherlock and John sitting by the window waiting for something they didn't know yet, but they were also sitting at every other table, in different clothes, different meals on their plates – or John's because many Sherlocks in there didn't have any – but always a candle between them. There was Speedy's café, alleys taking off the main road, with John and Sherlock speeding down this one or another, the entry way of 221b, door open, both men leaning against the wall, laughing, several crime scenes with them giggling over some inside joke or a rude insult towards Anderson. 

“What's this then? A Sherlock collage?” grandma asked.

John sighed deeply. “Missed opportunities, I guess.”

“For what exactly?” 

John stopped before St. Bart's Hospital, where he watched himself get out of a cab, his phone to his ear. 

“Opportunities to tell Sherlock just how much he means to me?” John offered. “Opportunities to make him understand that this just might be the death of me.” He pointed up towards the roof. 

John heard his grandmother suck in a breath. “He won't die.” he said, sounding bitter. “He had to fake his death so the psychopath stalking him wouldn't kill me, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade...”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “If he didn't die, why is this something you regret? And I can clearly tell that you do. Very much.”

John looked at the memory of himself, talking into the mobile phone. “I tried to stop him, but even there, even as I thought he was about to kill himself, I didn't have the guts to tell him all those things I needed to say.”

He turned and behind them the graveyard with Sherlock's grave had materialized. “Not even to his grave.” 

John took a shaking breath and closed his eyes. “He changed my life, made it worth living again. He died and came back. A miracle, just for me. And yet I couldn't get myself to tell him that I loved him. I couldn't because I was afraid it would drive him away...and now I'm dying. And I'll never know.”

“What will you never know?” Grandma asked tentatively.

“If he loved me back.” John replied quietly. “It's a stupid thing to hope, I'm aware, but I really need to know.”

He turned to find his grandmother smiling.

“There's one memory we still have to visit.” she said, pulling on John's hand.


	7. Unconscious Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's grandmother shows John something important he can't remember consciously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end here. I'm thinking one more chapter and that's it.

John frowned deeply as his grandmother lead him through the remains of a house that John didn't know. He had no recollection of the place, but it was unbearably hot, there were flames flickering here and there, somewhere was a bigger fire, John knew. 

“Where are we?” John asked confused.

“Think, John, and if you still can't remember, observe and figure it out.” his grandmother advised.

John stopped to turn around on his heels, doing a 180° turn he still couldn't – and then it hit him.

“It's the house Sherlock and I were in...the explosion. The place where I died...where I'm dying. Am I still alive?”

“Barely, but yes.” Grandma answered and pointed ahead. John tentatively stepped closer and found Sherlock, on his back, some debris lodging his legs so he couldn't move much but his head was turned, looking at something John couldn't see.

“I can't remember this.” John said.

“Consciously, no, you can't. However you as a doctor should know just how much information the human brain still absorbs even in an unconscious state.” she smiled, although it looked forced, as she pushed him closer to Sherlock.

And then he could see himself. He was next to Sherlock, debris was covering him almost completely, a deep cut on his forehead, bleeding awfully as head wounds are prone to do. 

“John.” Sherlock's voice was throaty, quiet. “John, please, wake up.” 

John had never seen that look on Sherlock's face before. If he didn't know any better he'd think Sherlock was scared, no, terrified, worse than in Baskerville.

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock tried again, his tone more pleading but with no more volume than before as if he couldn't come up with the strength to yell but really wanted to. He stretched against his bounds, trying to get closer to his blogger, reaching his hand out but to no avail and he gritted his teeth in a mixture of frustration and pain. “You can't just...You're not supposed to-” his voice cracked as a sob escaped the prison of his throat as the well maintained facade of control slowly but surely slipped away from the detective. 

John felt his eyes tear up as he watched his friend try in agony to get closer, try to wake him. 

Finally Sherlock succumbed to the inevitability of the situation. John could see the exact moment Sherlock's eyes glazed over and he gave up. “I can't live without you anymore, John.” Sherlock said, turning his head to look at the unconscious body once more before he looked back at the sky. “Please, God, let him live.” Sherlock whispered before he closed his eyes.


	8. Life, Beyond and Inbetween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was dying, now he's dead...or maybe still not quite there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of this is basically what I had planned to do, second part came to me when a patient told me that she actually remembered waking up after the surgery - which she shouldn't have and maybe didn't really - and the end, well, I have no idea where that came from. But it looks like this story is not yet complete and the bunny won't let me finish it once and for all...

The devastated house vanished before John's eyes, or more precisely it faded away, leaving him in a strange place that seemed to consist of light but didn't blind him.

“What's happening?” he asked scared.

“You're close to death now, dear. It'll be over soon.” Grandma smiled reassuringly. “Death's not really something to be afraid of, John. Look at you. You're dying right now and you're not in pain.” 

“That doesn't make it easier.” John muttered, running his hands over his face. “I just wish I...”

Grandma waited a moment but John didn't continue. “What do you wish?”

John sighed. “I wish I could tell him. I wish I didn't have to leave him behind. I don't know. I wish I didn't die now that I have everything I want just out of reach.”

“It's been there all the time, John, you just didn't observe.” Grandma argued.

“Yes! Alright!” John cried out. “I get it. I'm an idiot and now it's too late!”

A flash went through the light surrounding them like a shock and John looked around startled.

“What was that?”

“I told you, John.” Grandma's voice took on a reproachful tone. “I told you to try not to regret too much.”

“I don't!” John said, just as another flash went through the light.

“You might not regret many things, John, but the one thing you truly regret is huge!”

“I know! If I could go back, I'd do it better!” 

Another flash and a voice, a male voice but John couldn't make out what the voice was saying.

“Then do it better this time.” Grandma said.

A last flash went through his vision and then it was all black and the only thing penetrating John's conscious was a steady beep beep of a heart monitor.

 

~°~

John knew this moment, it had happened to him before and although he only experienced it once it was a memory he'd never forget. Reality was slowly coming back, his senses slowly becoming aware of the world surrounding him again. And much like last time, it hurt.

It went the same way. First he was in a dreamless sleep, everything numb and dull and every so slowly, he started to feel his limbs. A slight tickle spread from his fingers up his arms over the rest of his torso. It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling, uncomfortable, but nothing compared to what happened once the pain returns. And oh boy, did it return. 

His body was not yet responding to commands of his brain, only sensory nerves worked, efferent still paralysed by the anesthesia they were slowly reducing. He wanted to cry out, twitch, do anything so the idiots knew that he was in massive pain because they once again miscalculated how to reduce the meds so he'd wake up pain free. He told them the last time but obviously they didn't write it down and now he'd be left with another painful experience of waking up from a drug induced coma with all his memories intact because they're too stupid to let him wake up with the amnesic compound instead of without it. 

“Heartbeat's rising.” 

John heard the slightly distressed female voice and assumed it was a nurse. As a doctor John wouldn't admit it, but as a patient he knew nurses were often smarter than the morons in the lab coats. 

“It should be.” 

The second voice, male, bored, sounded quite far away. Not that John was surprised. He knew just how often the doctors were present but not actually spending much attention when waking up a patient. Arseholes.

“He's in pain, you imbecile!” 

That voice was familiar, the baritone sending a feeling of security and danger through him at the same time. Sherlock.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The doctor asked now. “Stop it! You're not even allowed in here!”

“Shut up!” The barked command was like a soothing blanket for John. Sherlock was taking over control and although John usually would never trust Sherlock with any sort of drug, he was more than relieved when the pain started to ebb away as the genius had apparently adjusted the level of pain medication.

John wanted to laugh, to cry. He was still alive and so was Sherlock. They had gotten out of it, again. The only thing he had to do now was to wake up and finally, finally tell Sherlock all the things he needed to say.

“Are you a complete idiot?” Sherlock's tone was even more reproachful than when he was accusing Anderson of being a moron on purpose. “This is much too low for the full-” and then John's memory blacked out.

 

~°~

 

The next thing John can remember is actually opening his eyes. There's the low light of the machines beeping behind him but otherwise the intensive care unit is mostly dark. John swallowed, belatedly noticing that he was not intubated anymore. Sherlock must have adjusted the amnesic compound and John had forgotten the rest of the waking up process. 

It was a relieve, not remembering the extubation and barely being able to breath. However, it also meant John had lost time. He didn't know how long it's been since they woke him up or how long he's been in this hospital. All he knew was that Sherlock had to know, now.

He found the call button in his own hand and it only took a minute for a nurse to appear beside him.

“Dr. Watson. How are you feeling?” she asked sweetly.

“Fine.” John rasped out, his voice unused for so long. “Where's Sherlock?” he asked, without doubt that the nurse knew exactly who he was talking about but he became worried when her face fell. Did he not remember correctly? Was the memory of nearly waking up from this coma nothing but a dream?

“Dr. Watson, he's not been here in three days.”

“Three days?” John was confused. “Was that when they woke me up?” 

The nurse nodded. “He stayed until you were extubated and you were breathing regularly. The doctor assured him that you'd fully recover. That was the last time I saw him.”

John swallowed around a dry throat, thinking about sitting up but deciding against it. “Is he ok?”

She smiled sympathetically. “He's got his leg broken and was quite bruised but otherwise he's fine.”

The blogger let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. “Could you get me a phone?”

She patted his shoulder softly and reached for the phone connected to his nightstand. “Your sister was here, getting you a card so you could call once you wake up.” she reported.

“Yeah, I'll get to that.” John muttered as he was already punching in the number to the world's only consulting detective. 

“Are you alright? You've gone all pale.” The nurse checked the monitor as John's heartbeat was skyrocketing but John didn't hear her, all he could hear was the female voice at the end of the line.

“The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.”


	9. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's still vanished when John's released from the hospital. However, the police sometimes does prove to be helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? Because of the nice feedback on the last chapter I felt extra motivated. Now, I have to admit that this bunny - as most of mine - didn't turn out the way I first thought. Apparently when I set out to write fluff, I end up with angst and vise versa. So here's some fluff and a tiny bit of comic relief to smooth the angst I've given you so far.

John was positively going crazy by the time he was released from the hospital. What the hell had happened? One moment he's waking up from a coma and Sherlock's there to insult the incompetent jerk of a doctor and then he's vanished from the surface of the world. Nobody knew where the mad genius was, not Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade or Molly. John had thought of calling Mycroft but with his mobile phone destroyed beyond repair, John had no number to reach him until the british government himself decided to talk to the ex army doctor. 

The flat was the same way they had left it that awful day weeks ago and Mrs. Hudson assured him that while she hadn't seen Sherlock since the incident, the rent has been payed, just like all the bills that had come in during their absence, John's included. 

Sherlock things were still there, too, so John took that as a good sign, although he didn't know if Sherlock's things had any sentimental value to him. For a frantic moment John thought that the only thing he was absolutely sure Sherlock loved was gone but then he found it. The violin was still in her case next to Sherlock's chair.

With no idea what to do about this situation, John sat in his chair, sighing deeply and heart felt. The pain medication was still heavy and John soon drifted off in an uneasy sleep full of nightmares of what could happen to Sherlock.

 

~°~

 

The meaning of the shrill ringing escaped John for longer than he'd like to admit later. When he finally realized it was the phone that was waking him he did have time to check who was calling him.

“Hello?” He asked breathlessly, some optimistic part of him hoping it would be Sherlock. 

“John, this is Lestrade.” There was something in Greg's voice that told John there was trouble. “Would you come to the Yard?”

“Something wrong?” John asked but was already putting on his shoes.

“We've found Sherlock.” Lestrade's words almost, just almost made John drop the phone.

“What? Where? Is he ok?” John asked rapidly and frowned when he heard Lestrade chuckle.

“Yeah, John, he's perfectly ok, the bastard. I only arrested him.” Lestrade mentioned as if it was nothing out of the ordinary – which, if John was honest, it wasn't, really. “Don't worry. He hasn't actually done anything, but you know how it is with the police. Sometimes it takes us ages to figure out that someone's _not_ involved. Sometimes it takes us just long enough so that someone can't ditch his flatmate any longer.”

John inhaled deeply, “Thanks, Greg, I'm on my way.”

 

~°~

 

When John finally reached NSY he was lead downstairs to an interrogation room, where outside the door Lestrade was waiting for him.

“Where did you find him?” John asked, his heart beating staccato. 

“Funny story, that.” Lestrade grinned. “There was a drugs bust downtown in a gay club. Guess who they'd picked up there.”

John frowned at the detective. “Sherlock was at a gay club? Was he doing drugs?”

“He's clean.” Lestrade shrugged. “Nothing on him and his pee test was negative as well. When I heard they'd taken him in, I had him brought here. Damn bastard's been avoiding all of us for weeks and then he turns up clubbing. I offered to take him home but he just said he wasn't going back to Baker Street yet because you were released today. So, I figured it wouldn't hurt him to wait for you to pick him up.”

John nodded as Lestrade opened the door. “Thanks again.” John muttered and then entered.

Interestingly enough, Sherlock did look up but he didn't give John the once-over he was expecting. In fact, Sherlock's glance only reached his jumper before he turned away again.

“So, here we are again. Nothing new that I get to bail you out.” John said, trying to sound light but really didn't feel it.

“You don't need to bail me out. This is a farce. Lestrade's holding me without reason.” Sherlock mumbled towards the table, keeping his eyes down as John sat in the chair opposite him. 

“Ok, so, no bail, which is a nice change. And you were at a drugs bust without actually consuming. Also, good. But Sherlock, where the hell have you been? We were all worried about you!” John desperately kept his voice quiet. He knew how easily Sherlock was spooked if there was something wrong with him. 

“Where should I have been? I've been home, then I was out. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Sherlock retorted dryly.

“You were home? Mrs. H. said you weren't home in weeks. And the flat looks just like I left it.” John bit his lips to surpress a respond to Sherlock's snort.

“As usual, John, you do not observe. Of course I've been to the flat. Mrs. Hudson might be more observant than many but do you really think I couldn't avoid her? Besides, do you honestly believe you could tell that precisely if the flat truly looked the same as you had left it?” 

Defensive mechanism, John thought. Sometimes it surprised him how well he had learned to read Sherlock, now he didn't give a crap.

“You've disconnected your phone.” John hated himself for the shiver in his voice.

Sherlock looked up with a frown, but still didn't meet John's eyes. “I did that three months ago. I figured it wasn't a good idea to have the number on the website after all, so I got a new one.”

“But...I've been texting with you! The number worked.” John was confused.

“Because I changed it in your phone.” Sherlock admitted quietly.

John sighed. “Sherlock, it doesn't matter. So the phone wasn't actually on purpose, but you've been avoiding everyone. Nobody's seen you since they woke me from the coma. You weren't at the hospital...what happened? What did you do in those weeks? Why did you leave me alone? And what the hell where you doing at a gay club?” John's control was slipping but the fear and frustration of the past weeks were finally boiling over now that Sherlock was sitting there, physically unharmed – emotionally, John wasn't so sure.

“I know you don't remember...” Sherlock started. “but you said something, something that forced me to think. I have to admit, it took me a long time, longer than I wanted to, but when I finally figured it out, I realized I couldn't be sure. I didn't have enough data so I had to get data.”

John rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. “I don't...Sherlock, what did I say?”

Once again, Sherlock looked up but averted his eyes just before establishing eye contact. “When they had pulled out the tube, when the doctor asked you questions, you ignored him. You just stared at me...and the first thing you said was 'I love you'.”

If he'd been drinking something, he'd be choking right now, John knew. As it was, it was only his own breath suddenly stuck in his throat. So, this is why Sherlock went under? 

“Um, Sherlock...look, I was really drugged...” For the love of god, make this right! He had to make Sherlock believe that he didn't mean it, so he wouldn't lose him completely. John honestly wanted to do that, but then he thought of the experience he had when he was dying. “No, you know what, I meant it. I still do. I love you, Sherlock. If it makes you uncomfortable, I understand, and I won't try to make it any more awkward...but it's the way I feel, so, there.”

For the first time since the doctor had entered the room, Sherlock actually looked into his eyes. “I know it's what you really feel. And it did make me feel uncomfortable.” John broke the eye contact. “However, not for the reasons you think.” Blue eyes back on his. “I have never felt anything resembling what I feel for you. When you said it, I realized that in all the time I knew you, I did realize that there was something but I never tried to find a name for it. The whole experience of knowing you was new to me. I never had a flatmate, who stayed for more than a couple of days, I never had a colleague, I never had a friend. People told me that what we have is not a normal friendship but I ignored it. People are idiots and I'm not what people call normal, and I know you're not as ordinary as most think, so it seemed natural that our friendship would not be ordinary.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, adjusting in his chair, unusually nervous. “As I mentioned, I had to think. I had to review all that I knew about you and about me in the context of our relationship. And then I realized that it did indeed not fit the description of a friendship anymore. It is much more than that. I found myself wondering what it would be like to take things ahead, as they say. I wondered what it would be like to kiss you, to touch you, and those thoughts aroused me.”

If anyone could see him right now, they'd be laughing their arses off, as John's jaw was basically hitting the table at this point. He cleared his throat in a try to get himself back on track.

“That's...um...good, I guess.” 

Sherlock grimaced shortly. “I prided myself to be above such sentiment. I always thought I had mastered the biological needs of my body, but you seemed to prove me wrong.”

“Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with being aroused.” John argued softly.

“But I couldn't be sure!” Sherlock exclaimed, his gaze becoming distant, much like when he was explaining an experiment that was puzzling him. “I never felt attraction, so I couldn't know if you're an anomaly or if I simply for the first time allowed those feelings.” 

John's brow furrowed but then it hit him like a slap in the face. “That's why you were at the gay club.”

“I had to get data...” Sherlock's voice was back to a whisper.

John suppressed a desperate laugh. “So, what does the data tell you?”

“That you're an anomaly. That I don't like to be kissed, I don't like to receive or give oral sex. However, even after trying those activities and disliking them, I still find the thought of you doing those things intriguing.” Sherlock looked at him rather shyly. “I can't promise you that I will like those things.”

A low chuckle escaped John. “Yeah, I get that, Sherlock.”

“I do feel very deeply for you, John. I didn't come to the hospital because I couldn't face you before I knew all I had to know. And I don't think I know everything yet. However, with my limited knowledge on the matter, I still feel confident enough to say that I do return your sentiment.” Sherlock admitted.

“Enough to say it without so many words?” John asked teasingly.

And finally, Sherlock smiled slightly. “I love you.” he stated, and he did sound confident, much more than John could have expected. Maybe weeks to think about it were a good idea. 

“I love you, too.” John answered. “The rest, well, we'll see about it when we get there.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Can we go home now?”

John smiled. “Yeah, let's.”

As they got up from their respective chairs, John was surprised to find lips pressing against his own. His stomach did a flip that was anatomically impossible and although the kiss was pure innocence, it did leave him breathless. 

“Huh.” Sherlock voiced, which twisted John's intestines into a tight knot of fear, but it resolved at Sherlock's next words. “Well, I do like that when it's your lips.”

John laughed, a care-free laugh right from the belly. “Alright. Let's take the rest of this experiment home.”

Sherlock nodded as a small smirk appeared on his mouth. “Yes. I think we've given Donovan enough material for gossip.” he indicated to the observation room hidden behind the mirror and John couldn't help but groan. How could he forget about that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter smut? Anyone interested?


	10. Uncharted Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get home after their conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I surprised myself by being a genius ;-)   
> This story is pretty much free-writing. I don't know where it takes me, so I was pleasantly surprised when writing this chapter that I conveniently gave Sherlock the opportunity to become an expert on gay sex, because let's face it, a virgin and a formerly completely straight man having sex would just be a bitch to write.

The drive home had been spent in a slightly more strained silence than usual. John had once prided himself that he and Sherlock didn't need to fill the silence with words, something he always despised, for him was the ultimate proof of being comfortable with each other. However, now they were definitely leaving their comfort zones to venture into new, uncharted territory. 

It wasn't before they were both seated in their respectable chairs, both with a steaming cup of tea, that John finally mustered up the courage to talk again. 

“So, um...this is happening, then.” 

Sherlock made a non committal noise behind his cup. “There is something I have been wondering.” he admitted. “We have been living together for over two years, your demeanor towards me has only gradually changed, and not much change in the last six months. It wasn't the first time our lives were in danger...why did you say it now?”

John took a deep breath, looking at the most rational man he's ever met – except maybe Mycroft – and wondered if he could tell him. 

“I had a near death experience, of sorts.” He then said. “My grandmother once told me that when you die you get to see your life again. All the moments that were important to you. She told me I should take care that I don't regret too much.”

John could see the cringe forming on Sherlock's face as it usually does when someone says something profoundly unscientific. 

“I don't actually believe that my grandmother came back from the dead to show me my memories, Sherlock.” John grinned. “I am aware that it's simply a protective method of the brain, showing imaginary scenarios to distract you from pain.” He shrugged slightly. “It doesn't matter, though. I followed her advice most of my life. I don't regret much, but what I did regret was never telling you that I love you. As I said, I was drugged when they woke me up so I guess it wasn't the most sensible way to do it, but I don't regret saying it. In fact, even if you hadn't reciprocated, I don't think I'd regret it.”

“Most people would say it was brave of you. I never gave you any reason to believe I returned your feelings.” Sherlock pointed out.

“Someone once told me that bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.” John smiled. “Besides, I think you did show me. It might not have been obvious, and I don't think what I saw as a memory was anything but wishful thinking. I mean, it's kind of cheesy to think you asked God to let me live.”

John looked up just in time to see Sherlock avert his eyes. “Seriously? You said that?”

Sherlock swallowed. “You were about to die and you said those would be your last words, are your last words, but you couldn't say them...”

John stared for a long moment. “You said my last words for me...that's kind of...poetic...romantic even.”

Sherlock kept looking at the carpet for some time before standing up and moving to John. “I don't want to talk about this anymore. We're both alive and I think we have more pressing matters ahead of us.”

“Oh, you mean the pressing matter of pressing against each other?” John grinned cheekily. 

“If you insist on phrasing it in your usual bad puns then yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but the smirk was there, almost invisibly, but there. It was, however, a totally different matter to actually do something. John silently wondered if it looked as awkward as it felt as Sherlock straddled John's hips on the chair, his bony knees lodged between John's thighs and the chair arms, his hands on John's neck, thumbs rubbing slow, small circles. “Is this ok?” 

John adjusted a bit to give Sherlock's legs some more room and then put his hands on the detective's hips. He's been fantasizing about this exact scenario so often, why didn't it feel right? There were pointy bones sticking in his flesh and he had no idea where to put his hands on a man's body, this man in particular. Sherlock had already said he hadn't enjoyed sex with other men, why would he enjoy it with John, who never touched a man in a non-professional way?

“John?” There was this uncertainty again. God, why was Sherlock so uncertain all of a sudden and look so damn vulnerable. Even his virgin girlfriend in school he had his first time with didn't look this fragile. 

John forced out a laugh, even that didn't sound right. “It's new, you know? I've never done this...”

“But you want it, don't you?” Sherlock asked carefully, his eyes dancing over John's face looking for any sign that this wasn't good.

“I do, god, Sherlock, I do want this. I just need to adjust, you know...I didn't cruise gay clubs for the last two weeks.” And suddenly, as if this was the first time John had heard about this – from his own mouth nevertheless – his brain makes a full stop to look at that sentence again. “You were cruising gay clubs for the last two weeks.”

“I told you, I needed the data.” Sherlock defended himself.

“Yes, I … just … promise me you won't get anymore outside data from now on, ok? I mean, I'm new to this and I don't need to go out to know that I don't want any other man in my lap than you.” John stammered, trying to get his thoughts to form a line. This was all happening too fast – but then again, everything involving Sherlock happened fast. 

And there it was, that slight grin Sherlock had that turned John on in the most inconvenient of situations, but now was quite convenient with a lapful of consulting detective, his cock gave a slight jump.

“I promise not to go looking for anymore.” Sherlock swore solemnly before he leaned in to whisper into John's ear, his lips softly brushing the shell, “but I do think you'll benefit from what I've learned.” 

John knew that he was in for a near death experience of the good kind as Sherlock's lips closed around his earlobe, teeth tucking ever so slightly. 

When Sherlock released the flesh he was pleased to see it pink, the color spreading over John's neck and cheek as well, his breathing harder than it was before, eyes closed, pulse drumming hard enough against the carotid artery that Sherlock could plainly see it. John looked perfect like this and Sherlock took a second to imprint the picture on a wall in his mind palace. 

Slowly the doctor's eyes fluttered open again, pupils dilated to the point that there was only a small ring of blue surrounding them, his tongue making an appearance to wet his lips and Sherlock had to correct himself. John looked perfect like _this_.

The detective closed the distance and took advantage of the slightly open lips, tucking the bottom one between his teeth and pulling, extracting a stiffled moan from John that send a wake up call to Sherlock's groin, a reaction he was very pleased with as all other man had to do a lot more than moan to get the slightest beginning of an erection. He pressed down his hips, feeling the bulge in John's jeans as his own pressed into the blogger's stomach, his much firmer stomach than the bulgy jumpers suggested, Sherlock thought and let his left hand wander there to test it, finding firm muscles hidden under wool. 

John groaned as Sherlock slipped his hand under the material, cool fingertips brushing over heated skin making it tickle in anticipation. When Sherlock's other hand wandered to his belt, though, John stopped him.

“What?” Sherlock asked confused, his own eyes blown with lust.

“We should do it right.” John said, making Sherlock frown. “You know, it's our first time, my first time with a man, with you, I want to do it right, in a bed, not some quicky in a chair.”

Sherlock looked at John as if he was speaking Chinese, although, maybe then Sherlock could still make more sense of what he had just said. 

“You never had anything _but_ quickies, did you?” John asked carefully.

“Obviously, John. Shagging at a gay club usually is a rather quick matter.” Sherlock replied deadpan.

“You shagged them _at_ the gay- you know what, doesn't matter. Up you get.” John instructed.

“I'm already up.” Sherlock grinned at him.

“Now who's making awful puns?” John grinned back. “C'mon, off to bed.”

It seemed that with the change of location, John suddenly found his bravado. As soon as the door clicked shut, Sherlock found himself pressed against it, his mouth commandeered by John's tongue and his hands pinned next to his head. 

“I'll make you forget those men.” John whispered as he moved his ministrations to Sherlock's throat, running the tip of his tongue over the birthmark there as he already dreamt of doing. 

“What men?” Sherlock asked, half joking, half already forgetting them when John pressed in closer, putting pressure on both their groins. His thought were lost to the rhythm of thrusting John's hips had taken on, so he was quite surprised when his shirt was pulled from his shoulder. When had John opened the buttons? 

Not losing any time on unimportant questions, Sherlock set off on the much more interesting path, the path of getting John Watson naked, in bed and his cock in his mouth.

As it turned out, the first was harder than Sherlock had anticipated. The jumper caught around John's head, the detective forgot to unbutton the cuffs of the doctor's shirt so it tangled around his wrists, leaving his hands useless as Sherlock had already moved on to his belt. 

“Sherlock, a little help!” John pleaded, still trying to escape the prison of his own damn shirt, while his jeans were already pooling by his ankles and his pants rapidly following them. 

“No time.” Sherlock's voice was mumbled as he didn't stop mouthing John's shoulder to speak the words. He pushed his new lover back onto the bed, effectively catching his still entangled hands close to his sides. 

“Sherlock...” John tried to protest again but any following words turned into a loud moan that easily could have been mistaken with a cry, as his cock was suddenly and almost down to the base engulfed in a wet heat. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” John swore as Sherlock pulled back to swirl his tongue around the tip, then lapping at the slit to gather any precome that had chance to form there and proceeded to swallow him whole again. “Fuck!” 

Sherlock chuckled lightly, sending vibrations around John's cock that made the doctor buck his hips. He adjusted the suction, hollowed his cheeks in every up move, pressing his tongue flat to the shaft and circle the tip. Not once he lost sight of John, though. His hands were fisted inside his shirt, eyes closed tightly, mouth open in a constant silent gasp that was infrequently interrupted by uncontrolled moans and filthy swear words, but also encouragment and endearments. 

Sherlock adjusted between John's legs, taking his own leaking member in one hand while the other rolled John's testicles.

“Oh, shit! Yes, that, do that...oh god, so...so good...mhm...” The words pouring from John's mouth spurred Sherlock on. He went down deep, taking John right to the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of John's in his mouth, the sounds and words spilling from those kissable lips. 

He fisted his own prick harder, feeling his testicles draw up as the edge was getting closer and closer. He concentrated, swallowed around John, once, twice -

“Holy mother – AHHH, SHERLOCK!” With his name leaving John in a scream that was enough to put Mrs. Turner's Married Ones in their best times to shame, hot liquid filled Sherlock's throat and he reached his own orgasm, although more muted because screaming was not actually possible while swallowing your lover's load.

Sherlock realized that he had actually black out because the next thing he is aware of is that his head rests on John's thigh, his nose almost brushing the now flaccid cock, while he's still kneeling on the floor, and a hand is lazily running through his hair. 

Raising his head – that felt like that time he experimented with helium and inhaled too much of it – he found John's eyes looking down at him with an expression of affection and love Sherlock had never expected to be directed at him.

“When did you get your hands free?” he asked, the first thing that came to his mind that wasn't some ridiculous sentiment he would never voice anyway.

“I have no idea.” John grinned sleepily. “C'mon. Get onto the bed.”

Sherlock complied and found that lying with John was not just much more easy than anything they'd done so far, but the most comfortable he'd ever been in his bed.

“So...what's the conclusion, then?” John asked, his hand drawing random patterns on Sherlock's back. “Am I an anomoly?”

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to John's chest, “You most definitely are.”

“Did you really learn to do that in two weeks?” John asked, his voice sounding as if he was half asleep.

“It's not that difficult. Simple matter of nerve stimulation and controlling the gag reflex.” Sherlock explained.

“I'm afraid you'll be disappointed when I try.” John admitted.

Sherlock leaned up to kiss his slowly. “I can teach you. We've got the rest of our lives.” 

John smiled as Sherlock settled back onto his chest. “Yes. The rest of our lives.”


End file.
